Sincerely
by xSuchSweetNothingx
Summary: "She opens the dictionary and writes down the first word that she sees . . . never before had language been put to such cruel yet efficient use." OOC. AU. Edward / Bella. Soldierward / Militaryward. Set during WWII.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

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_* This takes place during WWII *_

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She opens the dictionary and writes down the first word that she sees.

**Complicate**

Meaning complex. Intricate.

Difficult to analyze, understand, or explain.

She doesn't know why she feels this way.

She doesn't know why she's doing this right now.

It doesn't feel right.

It doesn't make her feel any better.

She keeps writing.

_Complicated. Things aren't the way I had thought they would be. I knew I was going to miss you. I knew I was going to be afraid for you. I knew I was going to wish that you hadn't left. But this is different; it's so much more. And I don't know how I'm going to tell you this. I want to say it the right way but I'm not even sure that there is a right way to say it._

She flips a couple pages and writes down the next word that catches her eye.

**Difficult**

Meaning hard to do, make, or carry out.

Hard to deal with, manage, or overcome.

She doesn't want to do this anymore.

A tear slips from her eye and falls to the paper.

She keeps writing.

_Difficult. It wasn't easy to see you go. I wish I could have stopped you. I wish you were still here. I wish I had been enough to keep you here. It hurts to know that you could even contemplate the thought of leaving me._

She goes forward, almost reaching the end of the monstrous book before she finds another word.

**Worse**

Meaning to be of more inferior quality, value, or condition.

More unfavorable, difficult, unpleasant, or painful.

Bad, evil, or corrupt in a greater degree.

_Worse. Knowing that there is a possibility of you coming back to me only makes it worse. I should have been enough to make you stay. You've been gone too long. It's not okay. It's not fair. It's not right. You're supposed to love me. You're supposed to make me happy. I told you not to leave, but you did it anyway. And I wish you were here so that you could change my mind but you're not. You're not here, Edward. You're never here._

More tears fall onto the paper, and she wipes at them with the sleeve of her shirt.

His shirt.

She wears his clothes every night now.

It smells like his cologne.

But that's just because she wears that now, too. Every night.

She finds another word.

**Different**

Meaning partly or totally unlike in nature, form, or quality.

Not the same.

Unusual.

Her hand begins to work faster than her brain; the words seeming to flow out of her.

_Different. I don't know who I am without you here. I don't remember how to be normal. I can't figure it out on my own. I do things that don't make any sense. I try to trick myself into thinking that you're still here. I lift up the toilet seat for no reason and leave it that way. I throw my wet towels into the corner of the bathroom. I get toothpaste all over the sink. I burn the coffee. I switch to the sports station before I turn off the radio. That's not all, though. Yesterday I sat and talked with a homeless man about how great a speakeasy must have been. I don't even know what a speakeasy is, but from his vague argument I gather that it's not meant for women. Last week I spoke with a fifteen year old in a ration ticket line about the importance of having a victory garden. I do not have or plan on starting a victory garden; I kill every plant I touch, and accept it completely. That didn't stop me from saying that I am the proud owner of some ripening cherry tomatoes._

She thinks about laughing.

She almost does.

Then she remembers the purpose of this letter.

She flips through the pages of the dictionary again.

**Victory**

The overcoming of an enemy or antagonist.

Achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties.

The word should have been obvious.

_Victory. You're fighting for victory. You're fighting for democracy. You're fighting for the less fortunate. And that's great for you, Edward, really. But did you ever think about the consequences of victory before you enlisted? All of the lives that are lost? The effects that killing others has on your brain? You can only kill so many people before you start going crazy, even if it's just the "bad guys". I know you, Edward. You have a special kind of sympathy. You feel things so strongly. You don't belong in war; you're too good of a person. You weren't made to fight. You were made to live._

Her shoulders slump.

Her nose runs.

She sniffles.

She flips the pages of the book until she finds another word.

**Reality**

Meaning a real event, entity, or state of affairs.

The quality or state of being real.

She scribbles the word out and starts the next sentence.

_It isn't easy to read the news or listen to the radio; to hear the numbers. They used to just be numbers, Edward; but they're not just numbers anymore. They're people, and while I always knew that before, it's so much more real to me now. I think of you. I think of your parents. I think of your friends here, and the ones that you must have made there. I think of all the terrible things you've seen but won't tell me. I think of how scared you must get sometimes. I think of how brave and stupid and noble you are. And then I think about me. What am I supposed to do if something happens to you, Edward? There's never going to be another person for me. You're it. You're everything._

She needs to stop for a moment because she's shaking too much.

She stands and goes to her room to grab the comforter off of her bed.

Their bed.

She sits back down.

She doesn't know what else to say.

She flips through the pages of the book again, almost reaching the beginning before she finds another word to write.

**Gone**

Meaning lost; ruined.

Him.

_Gone. You left me. You left me for your country. You're fighting. You're trying to help people. You're trying to make the world a better place. And maybe that's supposed to make it okay. But it doesn't. Because at the end of the day, you're just . . . gone._

She goes forward several pages before she writes down another word.

**Hate**

Meaning intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury.

Extreme dislike or antipathy.

Her brows furrow as she reads this word over and over.

Her back straightens.

Her cheeks redden.

She takes a deep breath.

She lets it out.

And she writes.

_Hate. Sometimes I hate you. I hate you for making me fall in love with you. I hate you for being noble. I hate you for being stupid. I hate you for being brave. I hate you for leaving me. I hate you for promising to come back. I hate you for writing me nice letters. For telling me that you love me. For telling me that you miss me. For telling me that you'll be home soon. For telling me that when you come back, we're going to start a family. Have our happily ever after._

She breathes in deeply again.

Drops the pen to stretch her aching fingers.

She has indentations in her skin from holding it too tightly.

She considers ripping up the paper and throwing it away for a moment.

Forgetting it.

Destroying it.

Then she flips through the dictionary again.

She finds another word.

**Lie**

To make an untrue statement with intent to deceive.

To create a false or misleading impression.

It's definitely a possibility.

She'd seen it many times before.

Love is based on trust.

Trust is fragile.

Once it's broken, it's shattered.

She doesn't want to do that to him.

He deserves better.

She tells him so.

_I thought about lying to you. I thought about telling you that I don't love you anymore. I thought about telling you that I've found someone else. I thought about telling you that you're not worth waiting for. But I don't want to lie to you. I don't want to make you feel the way that I do._

Her heart rate accelerates.

Sweat beads on her forehead despite the coolness of room.

She knows that it's getting close to the end.

She flips through the dictionary to find the next word.

**Promise**

A declaration that one will do or refrain from doing something specified.

Ground for expectation of success, improvement, or excellence.

Something that is promised.

She scribbles out this word, too, before she proceeds.

_I promise to love you forever. I promise to honor you. I promise to be true to you. I promise to pray for you every night. But I can't promise to be yours when you have made it so very clear that you are not mine._

The tears are rushing freely now.

Her throat is tight.

Her chest constricts.

She finds her next word.

**Sorry**

Feeling sorrow, regret, or penitence.

Inspiring sorrow, pity, scorn, or ridicule.

Mournful.

The words flow easily.

_I'm sorry, Edward. I'm sorry that things are so complicated. I'm sorry that it's so hard; that I'm not strong enough. I'm sorry that I'm not the person that I used to be. I'm sorry that I'm blaming you for it. I'm sorry I'm not a better person. I'm sorry that you chose a shot at victory over me. I'm sorry that this reality has brought me to this point. I'm sorry that you're gone, and that nothing will get better until you're back. I'm sorry that you're not here. I'm sorry that I need you so much. I'm sorry that I tried to hate you. I'm sorry for considering lying to you. I'm sorry that I'm breaking old promises. I'm sorry that I can't make certain ones. I'm sorry that I'm telling you all of this in a letter. I'm sorry that it's jumbled; that it doesn't make sense. But most of all . . . I'm sorry for what I'm about to say._

She closes the dictionary.

She already knows what comes next.

_You need to stop sending me letters. I don't want them. You need to take off your wedding band, because I am taking mine off as soon as this letter sends. I don't want to be connected to you right now. I don't want to feel this way. I want you to be gone for a reason; a reason that makes sense. You've hurt me. You've hurt me so badly. You've taken away the one thing that I need most. You._

_So until you can be the husband that I need you to be, this marriage is over._

_Goodbye, Edward._

_Sincerely,_

_Bella_

She dates the letter: 27 June 1945

She folds it neatly and puts it in an envelope.

She writes down its destination.

She walks outside to put it in the mailbox.

When she comes back inside, she does all the things she told herself she would.

She takes off her wedding ring. Showers. Changes into her own clothes. Picks up the dirty laundry and washes it. She cleans the sink. She puts down the toilet seat. She gives her radio to her neighbor.

Then she goes to bed.

And the next day, the mailman picks up her letter to send it on its way to Private Edward Masen.

Never before had language been put to such cruel, yet efficient, use.

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_**A/N: **I may or may not continue this story, depending on your reaction, my time and my other projects._

_But whether I do or don't continue this . . . It is my heart and soul. And I'm entrusting you with it._

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**~ Harlow ~**


	2. Chapter One

**_Chapter One_**

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Children are playing in the yard across the street from the small yellow house, two of them kicking a ball back and forth while the other three play with a jump rope. Somewhere down the street a dog is barking at a couple passing by. Birds are singing their songs of departure, readying to fly from the cover of the changing leaves for the comfort of the Southern weather.

Isabella stares out the open window, her cheek resting against her right hand while she stirs a steaming cup of tea with her left. "It's such a beautiful day," she murmurs as softly as the November breeze that caresses her face.

Marie smiles softly, placing a bowl filled with sugar cubes on the table, "That it is," she replies, running her fingers through her only granddaughter's hair. "You should relax today, child. It's not good for a young woman such as yourself to worry so much over such small matters," she says.

Isabella leans back in her chair, "I don't see how not being meant to have children could be considered a small matter," she replies, rubbing at her eyes in her exhaustion.

Her grandmother laughs quietly, "Who said that you are not meant to have children, Bella?"

She frowns, turning to look outside again.

"God does not make mistakes, Bella. He will give them to you when it is your time."

Isabella blinks the tears out of her eyes while her grandmother leans down to wrap her arms around her shoulders from behind. "We've tried so _hard,_" her voice breaks, "Edward wants them so badly and I want to give them to him. But what if I . . ." she trails off.

"What if you . . ." her grandmother urges though she already knows where this is going.

"What if I am incapable of baring my own?" she whispers, her face falling into her hands. "What if Edward and I will never be able to have children."

Marie sighs and releases Isabella to sit in the chair beside her. She rests her hand on her knee, "There are many ways of having children; look at Edward himself. He most certainly wouldn't be opposed to adoption."

Isabella takes a deep breath.

"I suppose the real question here is . . . would you, Bella?" Marie asks.

She is silent for a moment.

"You can tell me the truth, child; I would never judge you."

She turns her head to sob into her shoulder, shame settling in the pit of her stomach.

"My love for you is unconditional, and I want to help you in your journey to happiness; talk to me Bella. Let me help you," Marie urges.

"_I don't know_," her muffled voice replies. She wipes at her eyes and mouth, taking three deep breaths before turning to look into her grandmother's eyes. "I would love to be the person who is so wonderful and harbors so much love that they will take in another child as their own, but I'm not sure that I am that person," she says.

Marie nods, "Well perhaps that is something you should think about. God sometimes gives children to the wrong people so that the right people will save them, and learn more about themselves in the process."

"I know who I am," Isabella replies stubbornly.

"Do you?" she inquires, "Because throughout your entire life, I've seen very different versions of you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Isabella asks, her eyebrows furrowing. She wasn't sure if she should take that as an insult or not.

"As a little girl . . . you were about as shy as they come. You walked with your head down, hands constantly tugging at your dresses and your hair covering your face. When you turned nine you became a tomboy, rolling in mud and playing football with Jacob. Then when you met Edward in your teens, you transformed again, you stopped spending time with Jacob and all of your other friends. He was your sole focus," Marie paused, smiling to herself.

Isabella remembers how she felt the first time she met Edward.

They were both thirteen.

_Her last baby tooth had just fallen out. She was chubby and her hair was a curly mess because she always argued with her mother in the morning when she was younger, complaining that it hurt too bad to brush the knots out of her hair._

She can't remember now if that was the truth or if she was just trying to be difficult.

_She'd been wearing the school uniform, but had opted not to wear a bra because she'd been in denial of her femininity._

_Surely she'd been meant to be a boy._

_Anyway, he'd just moved to Pennsylvania from Chicago for his father's company._

_Being that they'd met right in the middle of the Great Depression, Isabella had never seen someone with so much money._

_Her family had been alright, due to her father's profession in law, but they had still had to pray every night that they'd have enough money to pay the mortgage each month._

_Not Edward's family, though. They had fancy cars and fancy clothes and fancy jewelry and a big house filled with fancy furniture and decorations from all around the world._

_As if that wasn't enough, even at his most physically awkward he was stunning. _

_His hair was lighter than it was now, but bronze nonetheless. His eyes were an innocent green, and his skin was flawless._

_She'd had raging acne._

_None of that seemed to matter to him, though, as he walked up to her, holding his hand out. "Hey. I'm Edward," he'd introduced himself, kissing the palm of her hand._

_She'd thought that was so odd. She'd seen men kiss the top of a woman's hand before, but never the palm. "Uh . . . I'm Isabella," she'd replied._

_"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Isabella. May I ask who your teacher is?" he'd asked with a bright smile._

_"Mr. Banner," I'd replied after an embarrassingly long pause, in which time I'd been deliberating whether or not I should smile back at him._

_"Well it looks like we'll be seeing quite a bit of each other then," he tone was pleased. Would you mind showing me to class?" he'd inquired with a wink._

_She was stunned by his confidence and . . . beauty._

_That was when she decided that she wanted to be beautiful, too, and she let her mother transform her into the person she'd always wanted Isabella to be. A young lady._

"Then when you were fourteen, and all of your old friends were mad at you for leaving them behind, you changed again. You became sad; I think that was the first time you'd Isabella felt guilt and loss," Marie continued, bringing Isabella back from her memories only to push her into another.

_Edward had been sitting at the park, waiting for her in _their_ spot. He had been twirling a dandelion between his fingers, looking out over the field._

_He was even more beautiful than he'd been when they first met. He was taller than all the other boys in their grade, and though his face still had the roundness of that of a child's the rest of his body was filling out with lean muscle. _

_She wasn't sure how she was going to do this._

_She didn't really want to break up with Edward, but she knew that it was the only way to get her friends back._

_Having a boyfriend required too much time and commitment. _

_It was time for her to move on._

_Edward smiled when he noticed her. He stood up and opened his arms to embrace her._

_She stopped short of him though, and she knew that _he_ knew something was wrong by the slightest tightening of his hand around the flower._

_He sat back down._

_He'd been silent while she'd explained to him how Jessica and Lauren didn't like her anymore. She told him why it was his fault, and that the only way she could rekindle their friendship was to break up with him._

_When she was finished, all he said was okay._

_"Okay."_

_Then she got up and walked away._

_When she looked back though, she saw that he was still sitting._

_He was crying._

_He wasn't crying the tears of a man whose love had left him, for people don't know how to love that way at such a young age, but rather for the loss of his best friend._

She can't remember now if she understood that then. But she does remember the piercing guilt. And how only two months had passed before she was begging him to be her boyfriend, once again forgetting her old friends.

"Then not even a year went by before you changed again," she laughed, shaking her head, "When you turned sixteen you learned how to balance your relationship with Edward as well as other friends. And then you changed again when he turned eighteen and you both graduated high school."

She remembers that, too.

_He hadn't even closed his bedroom door behind them when she'd snapped, "What was that?"_

_His eyes had opened wide. He hadn't been expecting her ire. "What do you mean?" he'd asked, reaching out to hold her hands between his own._

_She ripped them from his grasp as she'd responded, "_College!_ You've _never _said a single _word_ to me about college, but apparently you've got your whole life all figured out."_

_"Isabella . . ." he'd started, not knowing what to say, "Of course I'm going to college. I'll be taking over my father's business one day or maybe starting one of my own, and to do that . . . well, I have to get an education so that I know what to do."_

_"Then why haven't you Isabella said anything to me about it?" she'd asked, pulling at her hair in frustration._

_He'd shrugged, "You've never showed any interest, and whenever I asked you about it you would scoff and change the subject."_

_"That's because there's no reason for me to go to college –but this isn't about me, Edward, this is about you!"_

_"What have I done wrong?" he'd asked, starting to feel his own frustration. He couldn't understand why she was being so unreasonable._

_"You're _leaving_ me!"_

_And there it was._

_"Oh, Isabella," he'd sighed, instantly understanding, "I thought you understood."_

_She'd been sobbing quite freely now, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Understood what?" she moaned._

_"Of course you'll be coming with me," he'd murmured, holding her face between his hands and pressing his soft lips against her quivering ones._

She winces as her memory comes to an end. He never did end up going to college.

She'd refused to move away from home, and he'd refused to leave her behind.

But this is just how things have always been between them.

"You were so . . . there's not even a word for it. But the fear of that boy leaving you does things to you that I don't think anybody but you or him could understand," Marie says softly, capturing Isabella's attention again.

She's not sure where her grandmother is going with this.

"And now that you're a young adult, twenty-three," she pauses, "I know that you've changed, but I'm not quite sure what you're searching for." She grasps Isabella's right hand, rubbing it with her thumb, "But if there's anything that I can tell you, child, it's that you always seem to find yourself in Edward. Look there first, Bella; talk to your husband."

Isabella shakes her head, "I don't want to worry him with this Grandma Swan; we're doing all that can be done as it is. It's needless stress."

"Then why do you let it affect you this way, child? You've come to me nearly every day this year after you see him off to work, and then you sit and stare out that window in this tiny house. That mansion of yours has plenty of windows that you could look out of."

She sighs, "It's just so . . . I get lonely when he's gone."

"The boy works six hours in the day at Cullen Enterprises," Marie says, "I know you can handle being parted from him for that long."

Isabella turns to look out the window again.

The children have gone inside and the dog has stopped barking and the birds have stopped singing.

"I know you want a baby, Bella; but how can you take care of a baby if you don't know how to take care of yourself?" she asks.

To some such a statement would sound rude.

But Isabella has always understood her grandmother in ways that others could not.

"I can't lose him, Grandma Swan. I know how to take care of myself, but there's no reason without him," she murmurs.

She leans down to take a sip of her tea. It's cold now.

"A baby won't change that for you, Bella; you need to live for yourself." Tears are falling from Marie's eyes now; sharing the one thing that nobody else truly understands about her dear Isabella, "You need to learn to love yourself Bella. And I don't know how you could not when so many already people do, but you will never be truly happy until you learn."

Isabella's brows furrow, "What does that mean?"

"You've made mistakes in your life, Bella. But you're young and everyone makes mistakes. You're not perfect, but neither is anybody else. Yes; you can be selfish, greedy, and every other unattractive trait that runs through the human race. But you also love with an intensity that I've never seen before. And that's how I know that God will gift you with a child, Bella, no matter how that child may come to be."

"But when?" she asks, seeking her Grandmother's teary eyes.

"When you are able to accept the first gift that He gave to you. Yourself."

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_**A/N: **You asked for it so here it is, Chapter One._

_The last chapter was the prologue so now the story is really beginning._

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**~ Harlow ~**


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